


Bleeding Out

by sparxwrites



Series: Astroize's Medieval AU [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood, Destiel - Freeform, Like I said it's weird, M/M, Magic, Necrophilia, Not really but I guess a little of kissing, Resurrection, Sort of? - Freeform, Swords & Fencing, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What’s it like to be stabbed?” asks Dean, one sunny summer’s afternoon.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In which Dean asks some rather unusual questions, receives largely unhelpful answers, and agrees to something extraordinarily stupid. Castiel, on the other hand, is rather satisfied with all of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Out

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kill Me Softly](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/14365) by Astroize. 



> Again, based off the wonderful art by Astroize, linked to above.

“What’s it like to be stabbed?” asks Dean, one sunny summer’s afternoon. The sun’s at its peak, and they’re sitting in a quiet corner of one of the gardens, basking in the warmth – not as prince and angel, but as man and man, enjoying each other’s company. Actually  _enjoying_ being around Castiel is still a new phenomenon for Dean, but he’s catching onto it very quickly.

Castiel considers the question for a moment, frowning. “Don’t you know?” he replies, tilting his head to look at Dean. “It’s happened often enough in our sparring sessions.

“It’s not the same.” The blows Castiel gives him then are always killing ones, quick and deadly, straight through the heart or lungs or spinal cord. Little time for pain, no slow numbing of the senses as the blood leaves his body in trickles. “It’s quick, it’s…” He gropes around for words to describe the sudden, shocking starbust of pain and then blackness, and finds none.

“…Painless?” suggests Castiel, with a quirk of the lips, and Dean rolls his eyes.  
“You know it wasn’t painless,” he half-snaps, and Castiel acknowledges the fact with a dip of his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. It wouldn’t be a lesson if it were painless.

They’re silent for another few minutes, Castiel’s wings brushing softly back and forth against the grass, Dean staring at the tip of his boots. Finally, though, Castiel nudges the base of Dean’s spine with his wings and grins a slow, lazy grin. “You want to try it?”

“Try what?” asks Dean, stupidly, mind struggling to kick back into gear for a few seconds.

“Being stabbed, of course.” Castiel says it like he’s not insane, like he’s offering Dean ale or drugs instead of a mortal flesh wound. “It’s… interesting. Although I do not know if you would experience the pain in the same way as me. Human bodies are always so much more… vibrant.” He eyes Dean, something old and hungry in his gaze, and Dean shivers.

It’s a stupid thing to do, for anyone, especially for a prince – which is why Dean says, “Alright, then,” and draws his sword, laying it across their laps and offering it to Castiel hilt first.

“I’ll bring you back,” promises Castiel absently, taking the sword and manipulating it until it’s pointing at his own side. The angle is awkward, and involved him curving his wing around to help brace the hilt of the sword, but finally he manages it; the point pierces his clothes, and the uppermost layers of skin, letting small drops of blood bead around the tip.

Dean watches curiously, not quite understanding. “What are you-” he starts, and then stops as Castiel curves a wing around his back and nudges him into position, so that they’re side by side. “Oh.”  
“There we go.” Castiel takes his left arm, pulls it around his back so Dean can touch the blade too, feel where it digs into Castiel’s flesh. He wraps his own free arm around Dean’s back. “Together. How about that, hmm?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure there’s anything  _to_  say, not in the light of what they’re about to do.

It can’t be easy, pushing a blade through two people’s worth of fat and muscle and internal organs, but Castiel manages it effortlessly.  _Angel strength_ , thinks Dean, feeling the blade slide easily past his fingers and into Castiel’s skin, both his and Castiel’s skin soon slicked with blood, and then coherent thought is stolen as the blade passes through the angel and into him.

He gasps, chokes, twitches with an instinctual terror and the urge to escape the cold steel, and Castiel laughs, as if he isn’t connected to Dean by the sword that is severing both of them in half. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

The point of it is out of Dean’s other side, the hilt pressed up against Castiel’s ribs, and Dean’s hand curls around the angel’s where it grasps the pommel. “Get- get it out-” he whispers, eyes wide and black with stunned pain. It’s not the clean, vicious ending that Castiel’s sparring blows are – it’s cold, ever-spreading cold as the warmth leaks out of him and down his side, across his stomach, mixing with Castiel’s blood, an unstoppable ache of a pain that is terrifying in its inevitability.

“Shush, shush, stop that,” chides Castiel, calmly, one wing sweeping around Dean’s back and holding him up as the cold slowly creeps down his spine, making sitting up difficult. His hand curls around Dean’s neck, fingers brushing gently along the steadily paling skin there and touching his jaw in a comforting motion. “You’ll make it hurt if you keep moving like that. Hush, my prince.”

“It already hurts,” Dean forces out, and feels a fresh wave of alarm run over him when his voice comes out weak and straggling. “Cas-”

The old, hungry look is back, as Castiel presses fingers against Dean’s jaw so they’re looking at each other, Dean’s eyes wide with the fear Castiel is so desperate to feel. “I told you,” he murmurs, and suddenly, despite the pain, Dean is intensely aware of the way their fingers are tangled together on the pommel of the sword, the fact that their lips are only inches apart, and that Castiel’s blood is mixing with his on his stomach. “Humans. They feel everything so brightly, so vividly, and then they fear what they feel. Such a waste.” He shakes his head sadly.

“Cas-” tried Dean again, although he knows it’s too late, that there’s seconds left. He’s shivering despite the high sun, vision blurring around the edges, tunic saturated with slowly coagulating blood. “Castiel-”

“Shh,” murmurs Castiel and, because he has no free hands to press over Dean’s mouth to silence him, kisses him. The kiss is chaste, and the prince’s lips are cold and still under his – with either shock or death, he doesn’t much care – but it’s still perfect, the familiar rush of heat down his spine and in the pit of his stomach. He sighs with satisfaction at the hit, pulling away and thumbing a line down Dean’s jaw.

The prince’s body is limp where it is slumped against his wing, and a quick press of the fingers to Dean’s pulse point confirms that he is gone; Castiel sighs heavily. He missed the moment of death, occupied with Dean’s cold lips. Not that it matters so much. There will be other opportunities, he is sure – but it would have been nice to mark the first.

He promised Dean he would bring him back, but never said  _when_ , and so allows a moment to indulge himself. With Dean still, silent, senseless like this, he can cradle the prince, wrap a wing and an arm around his lifeless corpse and pull it close in an embrace that Dean would never indulge were he alive to know of it. It’s not as good as a proper human, a live, breathing, smiling one, but it is  _Dean_ , which makes up for some of its shortcomings.

He counts all of the freckles on Dean’s face again, as has become his habit when the prince is dead. The sun hits its zenith, and begins the long climb downwards, a small breeze picking up and curling its way across the garden lawn. No one notices the odd pair hidden behind a small line of trees, and so Castiel counts in peace.

“What am I to do with you, my prince?” he asks when he has finished, voice almost sad. He knows little of emotion, but he knows enough of desire to realise that he wants Dean – in what way, he’s entirely unsure, but it’s something he’s working on. With a sigh, he presses his thumb to the line of blood running out where the hilt of the sword touches his skin, rubs the ruby red over Dean’s lips in a macabre approximation of lipstick, and grins. “My pretty, naïve little prince…”

Dean’s blood tastes almost sweet on his lips when he smears it there with two fingers, eyes distant and thoughtful, and tastes even sweeter when he kisses the red from Dean’s lips. He thinks that it’s entirely possible that this human will be the death of him, and the irony of it makes him laugh as he licks his way into his prince’s cold, dead mouth with a contented sigh.


End file.
